“How do you mean?” said Cashel, blushing deeply, as he began to fear that by some accident his secret visit to the money-lender had reached Kennyfeck's ears.
“Your drafts on Latrobe, sir, whose account I have received to-day, are very heavy.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Cashel, carelessly.
“All! all!” repeated Kennyfeck; then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “I am almost certain, sir, that your generous habits have over-mastered your prudence. Are you aware of having drawn fifty thousand pounds?”
“No, I really was not,” replied Cashel, smiling more at the attorney's look of consternation than anything else. “I fancied about half as much. Pray tell me some of the items. No, no! not from book; that looks too formal,—just from memory.”
“Well, there are horses without number,—one bought with all his engagements for the Oaks, which amount to a forfeiture of four thousand pounds.”
“I remember that,—a piece of Linton's blundering; but he lost more heavily himself, poor fellow, our steed Lanz-knecht having turned out a dead failure.”
“Then there is something about a villa at Cowes, which I am certain you never saw.”
“No; but I have a drawing of it somewhere—a pretty thing under a cliff, with a beautiful bay of deep water, and good anchorage. Linton knows all about it.”
“Twelve thousand pounds is a large sum to give without ever seeing the purchase.”